


Fluro

by silvered_glass



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drinking, Full Moon Party, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered_glass/pseuds/silvered_glass
Summary: Doesn't matter where you go to help you forget - symbols, and reminders, and good old heartache always shine neon bright.





	Fluro

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight)/ [candybarrnerd](http://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/), you are a star. Thank you to my lol-chat always. Thank you to the mods.

 

His arm is covered in something sticky. Probably Redbull, but it could be raspberry cordial. Whatever it is, it’s caused sand to get stuck to his skin and that’s uncomfortable.

He thinks it's probably due to the shrooms he had earlier, but it feels as if the sand is melding together, forming a hard crust on his arm. And, if he thinks about that, he starts to feel worried about the idea of becoming a sand creature. Still being him, but being trapped inside a full body covering of sand, unable to open his eyes in case a grain gets in and unable to move in case he cracks open. His feet shift in the soft sand as he moves to the music and it occurs to him that instead of being covered in hard sand, maybe it would be worse to be made out of ever moving grains of sand, constantly losing parts of himself as he trickles away, constantly trying to scoop parts of himself up to remake a limb, or an organ.

Something about his thoughts feels important, he should write this down maybe, should explain it at length to several people. Maybe he should facetime his Mum. These definitely are important thoughts, also though, he might go wash his arm in the water.  But if he does that, then what would he do with his bucket?

He has his bucket cradled in his left arm, cradled against his chest, and in his other arm is a person.

A girl?

Yes a girl.

Maybe she could be trusted with the bucket?

There’s a lot to be said for buckets really. You can carry things, mainly liquids, drink out of them, then in the morning vomit into one if it’s lying within arm’s reach of your bed and you're quick enough to grab it.

Yup, he is a fan of the concept of buckets. He feels good that he’s holding this one like a baby, it deserves to be treated right.

 

“...Closer?” the girl is yelling, turning round in his arms and pressing all of her body against him. She jolts him and he’s about to tell her to be careful of his bucket but she’s speaking again. Her lips moving but he can’t hear her over the music.

“What, love?”

“I _said_ , Zinne do’ya wanna get closer?” she slurs.

“Already right next to the speakers,” he yells into the rough direction of her left ear. 

“No, to me?” she’s got both hands on his hips pulling him into her and he squints at her face. Does he? He doesn’t really know.

“Come on!” she turns and holding his arm starts winding her way through the crowd of moving bodies. Zayn’s feet slip in the sand and some bloke stumbles into him and knocks his bucket out of Zayn’s other hand.

“You made me drop my bucket!” Zayn yells, pulling his hand away from the girl and pushing against the dickhead’s chest.

“Fuck you!” the guy pushes back.

“Zii-anne!” Calls out the girl. Mangling his name and mangling his arm, twisting the sticky skin as she tries to grab him again and Zayn turns so she can’t.

He uses both hands this time to push the man who hurt his bucket and shouts, “Fuck off!"

The guy is much bigger than Zayn is, he grabs the material of the singlet Zayn’s wearing where it sits above his left shoulder and pulls him in closer while yelling, “Gotta problem ‘ya arsehole?” Spitle flies out of the dickhead’s his mouth and lands on Zayn’s cheek.

When Zayn looks up at him he can see the guy is chewing furiously and is sweaty as hell, and whatever it is the dickhead is on, that’s it, Zayn wants out of there. He leans his body back, letting the dickhead hold him up by his shirt and smashes his palm into the guy’s nose. The idiot lets Zayn go with a cry and doubles over. Zayn stumbles before regaining his own footing. He doesn’t stop to assess the damage, turns and moves swiftly back into the crowd.

He’s not that worried about the guy finding him, or about losing the girl, but he is going to go get another bucket, maybe wash his arm.

 

Zayn had headed down to this month's full moon party with a group of girls who are staying at the backpackers he’s been working at. They’d eaten the shrooms before they left for the party and when they first arrived they’d stopped to watch people with fire ropes. Zayn had felt almost scared of them, swinging widely and people moving in slow motion through them, as if they were chasing the flame, not jumping over it. He’d moved away and he’s not seen the girls again. It's not a problem.  He’s used to being alone. Whole point of Thailand is to be alone he thinks, as having bought himself a new bucket, he works his way around the edge of a dancing crowd a little further up the beach.

There is a guy in red swim shorts with a fluro body paint Adidas logo on his chest. The odd choice of having that logo painted on him, not some yin-yang or flower, grabs Zayn’s eye. He stops, sits on a nearby overturned crate letting his toes dig into the warm sand. The music is loud and easy to be consumed by. He couldn’t tell you what he was thinking about, his eyes following people’s bodies and feet, gaze circling back to the man repeatedly. Watching as the guy puts his arms up in the air, watching the way his muscles twitch and flex as he dances.

Zayn sips slowly at his new bucket, feeling the heat in the air roll over his skin and every drop of sweat that runs down his back. He knows it’s beading on his forehead, but he makes no movement to wipe it away. Instead he watches the Adidas logo man dance.

At some point the guy must feel his eyes on him as he turns and starts dancing facing Zayn. At some point their eyes meet and the guy smiles. Zayn’s not in the habit of smiling at strangers, but the guy is hot as fuck, and Zayn is drunk and loose from the shrooms so he raises an eyebrow and nods hello.

There’s still sand stuck on his arm and gradually the irritation from the specks turns into a roar and then the song transitions and there is something in the treble that pitches wrong inside and all of a sudden Zayn feels a compulsion to move, to get away from there. Almost as soon as he’s stood up the guy is beside him, hand large and surprisingly cool on Zayn’s shoulder as he asks, “Wanna go down to the water?”

Zayn nods.

As they reach the water’s edge Zayn pauses, the water kissing and running away from his toes. He concentrates on letting the sensation run up his body, his hallucinogen fogged mind focussed on waves of soft coolness flowing up over his legs and torso, even though only his feet are actually wet.

The guy has waded out to about mid-calf and is just standing looking towards the lights on the boats that have brought people over for the party. He turns back to Zayn asking, “Did you come over on one?” and gestures towards the boats.

“Nah, ‘m working at a backpackers here on the Island, got a room.”

“Okay, wanna go back there?”

Zayn can’t think of a reason not to so he says, “Yeah, all right.”

 

It’s only when they are inside Zayn's room that they stop and look at each other, eyes running down sweaty bodies, neither person speaking.

Zayn crosses to the tiny fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, the guy looks round the room.

“Aircon?”

“Nup.” Zayn turns on the light beside his metal framed bed and goes back to the door to flick on the ceiling fan and turn off the room light.

The guy makes a grab for him then and Zayn murmurs, “One moment,” and goes over to open the door on the other side of the room, the one that looks over the track to the beach. Then he turns and pauses, watches as the guy walks towards him, his smudged Day-Glo logo loud across his torso.

He doesn’t reach for him again, just moves in and expects Zayn to have turned his face up. They kiss roughly. Zayn puts his hands on the other guy’s shoulders, feels the strength in his muscles, and lets his fingers slide down sweaty skin.  The guy tastes like sweet alcohol and Zayn doesn’t like it, but it’s probably what he tastes like in return, so Zayn licks more into the guy’s mouth and waits for the tangle of desire he felt on the beach to heat up again.

The guy slides one hand down the outside of Zayn’s shorts, blatantly searching for his cock and begins to work him over. Rubbing his hand up and down the shape of his dick, the guy pulls back and looks at him and then grabs the hem of his singlet and so he lifts his arms and lets him take it off.

It’s then that Zayn can smell them both, pretty rank, sweat and metho scented smoke and it’s not a turn on. He can’t go any further unless they shower, so he says, “Come on” and pulls the guy into the tiny bathroom attached to his room.  

He turns the water on cold saying, “Don’t open your mouth.”

The guy lets Zayn wash under his arms and run his soaped up hands over his chest, and Zayn doesn’t do it consciously, but he avoids the body paint. It’s partially waterproof to make it withstand the sweat from dancing, and Zayn knows from experience it is a shitty substance to try to wash off, but also Zayn just doesn’t want to wash it away.

His hands slow as his mind is distracted and the guy must get impatient, takes the soap, and starts using it on himself, swiping it across his torso and then down over his own semi-hard dick, then he catches Zayn’s eye and says, “You stay still.”

The guy brings the soap to Zayn’s body, follows its path with his other hand, brushing over Zayn’s nipples and giving soft little pokes to each of his tattoos, acknowledging them.

“You're fucking hot,” he mumbles as his hands move down over the heart on his hip and he wraps a soap slick hand around Zayn’s cock and starts moving his hand.

Zayn closes his eyes and tips his head back to lean it against the wall.

The guy must have put the soap down, his other hand cups Zayn’s balls and he is good at it, tumbling them gently together while he silently alternates long strokes and short brushes over the head of Zayn’s dick. He keeps his eyes shut and wills himself to let it happen, wills himself to come.

They are silent, the water falling softly, lukewarm, he gasps and moves his hips, chasing the feeling. The guy is relentless, he’s not teasing, not giving prolonged pleasure, it's all about making Zayn come as efficiently as possible so he gives into it, breathes deep and tries to clear his mind.

When he does come its sudden and takes him by surprise. His eyes fly open and the guy is staring right at him, a serious look on his face. He watches as the second wave of Zayn's orgasm rips through him. It’s only then that the guy gives a self satisfied smile, and holds his come covered hand under the spray before he steps out of the shower. Taking a towel off the small railing he goes back into the room.

Zayn gives himself a moment, deep breathes and lets his heart settle, then follows him. The guy is sitting on the edge of the bed stroking his dick and almost smirking at Zayn.

Zayn hasn’t got a towel, but he takes the one sitting on the bed next to the guy, drops it on the floor and follows it, kneeling between his legs.

There are voices outside, people passing by, and he closes his eyes and sucks the guy’s length into his mouth. Zayn does it the way he likes it, but not as slowly. He doesn’t try as hard as he would if.. He doesn’t lick his balls, he doesn’t take a moment to blink up at him, he doesn't get it proper wet. He’s lazy and non-urgent and after a while his jaw starts to ache but then the guy does come, letting out a grunt as bitter liquid floods Zayn’s mouth. He has to pull off, can’t swallow it.

Then the guy speaks, watching as Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t normally with guys but you’re pretty, ‘ya kinda reminded me of my missus.”

Zayn has no fucking idea what to do with that, and he does lookup now, does meet the guy’s eyes now, they are bleary and red.

“You have a girlfriend?"

“Yeah,” he doesn’t look concerned or ashamed at all, “Well nothing's real over here ya know.”

“I still have the fucking taste of your come in my mouth mate, that’s pretty real,” Zayn says, his words harsh but his tone bland. He goes into the bathroom, door open still, he’s not sulking, just unimpressed in general really. He pours water from his bottle into the glass by the sink and rinses his mouth out.

“Nothing’s real in this heat,” comes the reply, “You should see where I’m from, county with the most rain in England, nothing but grey reality.”

When Zayn comes back in the room he’s happy to see the guy is getting dressed, pulling his swim shorts up with a smile, “Thanks mate, I might pass by later in the week aye?”

“Yeah sounds good,” he lies and watches as he goes out the back door down the path way.

 

Zayn goes back into the bathroom and brushes his teeth properly. Looking at himself in the mirror, there is a trace of fluro paint on his own chest, random smudges of Day-Glo Adidas symbol. He  brings his fingers up to touch them.

He’s more sober now and it occurs to him that he’s just given a guy head ‘cos his fucking temporary body art was the logo of _his_ favourite footie boots and fuck. If he, if  _Louis_ knew that, he’d never let him forget it.

Zayn rinses his mouth with more water from the bottle and closes the door to the outside, pushing the bolt across. Turns the fan up to the highest setting, white noise of the blades spinning filling the room. He lays down on the hard creaky bed, one thought running round his mind. _Nothing is real in the heat._

⚐

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [silveredsound](https://silveredsound.tumblr.com/post/183409330025/fluro-by-silveredglass-words-2499-rating) on tumblr if you'd like to chat.  
> This fic must live here and here alone.


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